The King of Sleep (30 page)

Lochie stood up immediately. “I find I am exhausted,” he declared. “If you will excuse me, I must go to rest.”

He turned to Sárán. “Have you eaten enough?”

The young man nodded.

“Then come along. I'm sure my friend the Brehon has much to discuss with Sorcha and I would not wish to disturb their thoughts any further with my less-than-perfect tales.”

“Your story was fascinating,” the Druid woman assured him. “I've learned a great deal tonight.”

Her eyes flashed at him in the firelight. But it wasn't a flash of admiration and for just the briefest of moments Lochie felt a twinge of fear. It wasn't the sort of terror that might make a mortal sweat, just enough to add some risk to his adventure.

“Good night, Sorcha,” he bowed. “May your stay among these folk be enjoyable. And may your quest prove fruitful.”

“My quest?”

“Saving the Watchers from their terrible fate,” Lochie explained. “I pray to Danu that you find an answer swiftly.”

“Thank you.”

With that he left the House of the Druids and strode off in the direction of his own little shelter. Sárán followed deferentially behind, always keeping three paces behind his master.

When they arrived at the house of healing the apprentice took his master's shoes and set them on a stone placed just inside the door. Then he went to stir the fire while Lochie settled down among his sleeping furs.

“I've never heard that story before,” the young man admitted as he placed a log upon the fire and poked at it with a stick.

“I know many things of which you can have no idea whatsoever,” the Watcher shrugged. “I understand many others which even Dalan cannot comprehend. He's just a conceited Brehon, after all. Can he change shape at will? Can he know the ways of the clouds and of the night sky? Does he think beyond the petty disputes which arise from time to time in this pathetic encampment?”

Sárán didn't reply, somewhat surprised by his master's immodesty.

“He does not,” the Watcher assured his listener. “But I do.”

“What's the answer to the question?” Sárán begged.

“What do you think the answer is?”

“The seed is shed from the barley so there will always be more seeds. That way the spirit of the barley will never die.”

“You have the beginnings of wisdom,” Lochie nodded with satisfaction.

“Will you teach me something of what you know?”

The Watcher raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you truly wish to learn?”

“I will absorb every scrap of knowledge you have to offer.”

“Then tomorrow we start your education in earnest.”

Two days passed at the fortress of Aillwee before scouts came in to Brocan to report the appearance of three war-chariots approaching from the southwest. It was a hot midmorning which held the promise of a stifling afternoon.

The king took the news with outward calm even though he hadn't slept since he'd presided at the council. He hadn't expected his summons to Eber Finn to be answered with war-chariots. He was determined not to communicate his worst fears to his people lest panic spread through their ranks. So on the pretext of training he called together all his warriors to prepare for a possible challenge.

Since the death of Fergus he'd wondered whether the Gaedhals would challenge him. If Eber Finn wanted to attack, there was little anyone could do to
stop him. His warriors were better armed, well trained and they outnumbered Brocan's defenders four to one.

The king knew the fortress could easily be overrun by the Gaedhals but he was determined to defend this last stronghold of his people to the death if need be. With the canny experience of a war-leader he had gathered food stores together and sent all but the fighting fit to outlying settlements to bide their time until the trouble blew over.

The caves had running water in their depths so there would be no shortage of that essential supply even if it didn't rain until the autumn. Where the stone walls remained unfinished the king had erected temporary barriers of timber and rubble.

It was all along this great circular rampart that Brocan's warriors arrayed themselves to await the arrival of the Gaedhals. No one expected a fight so soon. Three chariots posed no threat to Aillwee even if they were loaded down with war-gear and fighters. However, Brocan had ordered this display as a show that he would not give in without a fight. His grim-faced people understood his intentions even if he hadn't shared his thoughts with them.

Fifty spears stood ready on the eastern ramparts where the wall had been completed. This section of the defenses was unlikely to be breached. On the western side where the foundations of the stone ramparts had been laid down but not built to the desired height, a further fifty warriors stood with drawn
swords. In the center at the point where a dusty road trailed toward the caves, a hundred of the strongest Fir-Bolg fighters waited. There should have been a gatehouse at this place but work had barely begun.

And in the midst of these strong folk stood the king of that once proud people, staring out toward the south. Brocan quietly surveyed his handiwork, searching for any weaknesses that might be mended before the walls were put to the test.

Stretched out before the circular defenses was a field of jagged stones, impassable to horse and foot alike without the expense of precious energy. This had been Dalan's idea, a barren, inhospitable stretch of land that would certainly not inspire the enemy to valorous deeds.

The only way to enter Aillwee easily was down the dusty road. At the end of that track, Brocan's best waited for the coming storm, eyes steady, hands firm and hearts for the most part untroubled.

The Fir-Bolg stayed at their battle-readiness until the three war-carts appeared on the road which led out of the forest to the south. It was at that moment that the more experienced of the fighters began to suspect real trouble. A murmur of unrest spread through the ranks of those who guarded the road. Brocan closed his ears to the mutterings as he signaled for Dalan to come forward.

The Druid had been waiting in the rear for this command. He strode toward the king, dressed in his flowing cloak of Raven feathers and bearing a finely
carved staff cut from hazelwood, the universal sign of peace. Even the Gaedhals, who were considered uncouth and undisciplined, would abide by the call for talk before battle.

As Dalan passed through the ranks of the warriors some whispered to him, asking for an explanation; others wished him good fortune, but a few cursed him under their breath. There were some for whom the appearance of a Brehon in his best robes was an indication of trouble on the wind.

Dalan strode out a hundred paces or so, leaned on his staff and rehearsed the speech he'd prepared. But the sight of three chariots charging along at a reckless pace was compelling and he soon fell to wondering what Eber Finn had in store for them all.

The winding road was a long trail of ochre kicked up behind the horse-drawn vehicles. There was no wind so the spiraling dust hugged the track like the tail of some enormous serpent. And this strange dragon had three heads, each as venomous as the next.

Behind him Dalan could hear the deep war drums begin their pounding rhythms. He turned around in dismay, afraid that Brocan had decided to issue a battle challenge after all. He wondered what would become of him if Eber did not respect the signs of his office, and he suddenly felt vulnerable. Sweat gathered at his throat where the Raven feathers wrapped his neck in a soft downy black.

For the first time in his life the Brehon worried that
his position and rank might not protect him. If the Gaedhals were determined to crush the Fir-Bolg completely, they certainly wouldn't let a lone Druid stand in their way. Perhaps, he thought, Brocan had been right to be so distrustful of King Eber.

The chariots were much closer now. Dalan could plainly see Eber Finn standing proudly behind his charioteer with a hand on his hip. It was as if it took no effort for him to stay aboard the bucking cart. The King of the Gaedhals was dressed in a black tunic surmounted by a fine breacan cloak of bright red and green checks. The garment flowed out behind him, echoing the way his hair was tossed about in the wind.

Dalan could well understand why his people so eagerly followed him into battle. Eber Finn certainly reminded him of a heroic conqueror. One day the Bards would surely proclaim his story and his name would pass into legend.

Just then Dalan noticed that a strange feature distinguished Eber's chariot from the other two. At the front of the war-cart a spear had been lashed so that it stuck up into the air.

Dalan expected to see a standard flying there but instead there was a strangely shaped object seemingly trimmed with long strands of horsehair. The Brehon frowned in confusion which soon turned to dismay.

As the chariot came ever closer he realized what this decorative object must be and his heart began to pound wildly. He couldn't believe Eber would be so brazen as to taunt King Brocan in this manner.

“He wants a fight,” Dalan whispered to himself in despair, and he knew there was little chance now of avoiding bloodshed.

The Brehon turned around to judge the distance between the walls and where he was standing. In a few breaths he was walking again out toward the Gaedhals, hoping he could put enough distance between the two rival rulers that Brocan would not be able to make out what was mounted on the spear.

He'd gone another two hundred paces before he stopped to give the chariots enough room to safely slow to a halt. Dalan glanced around at the Fir-Bolg stronghold, once more hoping he had acted quickly enough to avoid a dishonorable scene. He had no idea what Brocan might do if he saw the head of his lifelong friend stuck upon the shaft of a boar-spear, but he suspected it would be a hasty and unthinking. And that could only make matters worse.

To the rear the war drums pounded more heavily, then the chariots were upon him and he was caught up in a cloud of swirling choking dust as the creaking war-carts and frothing horses came to a halt all around him.

It was a few moments before the dust settled and Dalan could make out the shape of a man walking briskly toward him. It was the stranger's long red and green cloak that marked him as the King of the Southern Gaedhals.

In the distance the Brehon heard a strident chant taken up by all the Fir-Bolg warriors. And to his great
relief he recognized the strains of the welcoming song, a poem which bestowed a greeting rather than a threat.

The pace picked up a little as a group of twenty FirBolg stepped out from the ranks to form a square. Then they proceeded to swing their weapons around in a uniform and beautifully constructed dance which paralleled the rising tempo of the chant.

By that time Eber Finn was standing patiently before Dalan, waiting for the Druid to speak. From a distance the foreigner had appeared older and battle-hardened. But up close his smooth face and bright eyes betrayed his youth.

And there was nothing more dangerous than a young king. Dalan swallowed hard, drew on all his training to calm his voice and demeanor and then he spoke at last.

“King Brocan of the Fir-Bolg sends you greetings,” he began, his eyes straying to the gruesome head set upon the spear. The once rosy cheeks had paled to a sickening gray. The eyes were rolled back to reveal glazed, discolored whites. The hair was matted with blood and mud, and the mouth hung open as if a scream were issuing forth from the very soul of Fergus mac Roth.

“I am Eber Finn,” the Gaedhal declared. “I have come to speak with King Brocan.”

The Gaedhal seemed so calm and confident that he appeared almost arrogant. Here he was, dressed in all his finery with just five men to guard him against the host of the Fir-Bolg. Either he was mad, Dalan decided,
or determined to present the greatest insult possible under the circumstances.

Before the Brehon had a chance to continue his speech, an old man dressed in the blue Druid robes of a Bard stepped forward.

“My name is Máel Máedóc,” the gray-beard stated in a surprisingly powerful and commanding voice. “I am chief counselor to the king.”

Dalan passed a quick glance from one Gaedhal to the other then abandoned the speech he'd prepared. He stepped forward and spoke in a low voice, even though he knew there was no chance King Brocan could hear what was being said.

“Are you seeking war?”

Máel Máedóc raised his eyebrows in surprise and firmly shook his head.

“We have come to make amends,” Eber replied. “I wish to make peace with the King of the Fir-Bolg.”

“There's little chance of that if you bring the head of his best friend piked on a pole as your peace gift. I suggest you remove it before you bring the wrath of all my people down upon you.”

The king laughed and Dalan breathed in sharply, unable to disguise his disgust and contempt for this brash young man.

“You've misunderstood,” Eber began. “Among my people it is considered a great honor for an enemy to have his head at the king's spear.”

“Fergus mac Roth was not an enemy of the Gaedhals.”

“He fell in a fight with my warriors,” Eber answered. “I'm told he fought honorably and well.”

“There was a truce agreed between our peoples,” Dalan snapped in reprimand. “Or have you no respect for such agreements?”

“How dare you speak to me in that manner?” the king shot back, his pride clearly prodded by the Brehon's tone.

“I'll speak to you in whatever manner I see fit. You're nothing but an impudent lad who thinks he can bully his neighbors into submission.”

Dalan knew he was speaking out of turn. Even as he heard the words issuing from his own mouth he understood he was making a terrible mistake. But he simply couldn't stomach the attitude of this disrespectful lout.

“If you imagine Brocan is going to be intimidated by the murder of his friend, you've sorely mistaken. Fergus was a man well loved. His companions won't just stand aside and allow you to treat his death as some sort of game.”